The world-famous email column

Issue #118 – “Nobody Cares” – October 29th, 2007

-Our generation is generally more apolitical, agnostic, and, well, apathetic than our parents’. When asked to speak out for or against an issue, we default to ambivalence – because it just seems like a lot less work. This tepidness extends not just to matters of national importance, but also – and, perhaps more so – to the day-to-day minutiae of our lives. We don’t say what we’re thinking because we don’t want to piss anyone off, or worse, get fired. Because I’m not concerned about either of those things, I’d like to take this opportunity to vent on behalf of my peers. After all, generations past spoke out on what they cared about most. But if there’s one thing that today’s twentysomethings are most passionate about, it’s not caring at all in the first place.

-Nobody cares about your fucking fundraiser. Listen, charity is great and I donate every year – on my own accord. But these days I get invited to more fundraisers than I did birthday parties the year my friends all turned twenty-one. So please stop emailing me about car washes, bake sales, sock hops, and silent auctions for random-ass causes I have no desire to support. It’s enough already. I don’t want to go. In fact, no one wants to go. Unless of course it’s open bar – then maybe we’ll consider it.

-Don’t include a list of your favorite books in your online profile if you’re just going to list the Harry Potter series. Hell, I’ve read them, too. But who are we kidding? Everyone knows that, in your case, those are the only seven books you’ve read in the past decade. Considering their target age group is about eight years old, you should be embarrassed.

-Fuck global warming. That’s right, I said it: fuck global warming. I believe it exists and I believe it’s bad. I just can’t stand to hear one more celebrity talk about it. If the federal government wants to enact a law that within five years all cars need to get 50 MPG, I’m fine with that. In the meantime, leave me the fuck alone. I mean, what the hell do you expect me to do – build a compost heap in my fucking one-bedroom apartment?

-For years, I’ve wondered how it’s possible that annoying people who don’t shut the fuck up don’t realize how annoying they are. We’ve all been there – trapped in a conversation with someone who isn’t able to pick up on the most obvious clues that you’re not interested whatsoever in what they have to say and are desperate to leave. I call these people HCIs – “head cock inducers” – because while you’re standing there listening to them blab on and on you subconsciously cock your head to one side and think to yourself, “Is she fucking serious right now?”

-Don’t send me Snapfish albums from events I did not attend. Nobody cares about your friend’s sister’s wedding. Don’t list your income on MySpace. Nobody cares that you make more than $100,000, you lying douchebag. Don’t let your girlfriend be the one to tell the story if both you and her witnessed an event. Nobody cares about the intricate details of what everyone was wearing. Don’t reply “maybe” to Evites. Nobody cares that you might be coming – and if you don’t show up I’m gonna send you the Snapfish album just for spite.

-In the end, I think that my problem, and the problem of my generation, is a lack of patience. Information comes at us so fast these days, it’s hard not to be impatient. I’ve been known to ask a question, and then lose interest a few seconds into the answer. Sometimes, I can’t even be bothered to finish my own sentences. A typical story I might tell my mom: “So, I went to the store like Dad suggested and blah, blah, whatever, I gotta go.” I guess I forget that moms are interested in everything. Like this one time – actually, forget it. You don’t give a shit.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-I used to have this gourmet welcome mat outside my apartment. Instead of “Welcome,” it said “Leave.” I really got a kick out of it. Until someone stole it last week. Man, some people just take shit way too personally.

-I love being a bachelor. My fridge has a drawer labeled “fresh produce.” That’s where I keep the beer.

-One strange thing about living alone is that when you finish something like a big jug of olive oil, you realize that you and you alone ingested the entire thing. And even though it took you a full year, you still feel like a fat bastard.

-Ex-Girlfriend once got upset because a girl she knew was dressing up for Halloween as what she had considered being the year before. To clarify: Ex-Girlfriend was considering one costume, then went with another. A year later, her friend chose the costume that she didn’t go with, and Ex-Girlfriend somehow got pissed. It’s absolute insanity and makes me feel glad to be single with a freshly stocked produce drawer.

-My buddy Josh works for the Padres, and when I texted him to wish him luck the morning of the Pads-Rockies one-game playoff, he wrote back to say he and his co-workers had just arrived in Denver to prepare. How cool is working for a sports team? Can you imagine if your accounting firm had to fly to Denver on a moment’s notice for a one-game playoff versus the rival accounting firm? How awesome would that be? Instead, you’re stuck with the company softball league and driving to Jersey for team-building exercises.

-When the check comes and someone offers to treat me to dinner, my first thought isn’t, “Wow, what a nice gesture,” it’s “Damn, I should have ordered more.”

-The other day, my iPod said “Do not disconnect” but I said fuck it and disconnected it anyway. I felt kinda badass. A moment later, though, I felt pathetic for earlier feeling so badass.

-And, finally, last weekend I ran into a bunch of guys from my fraternity who were seniors when I was a freshman. I always looked up to those guys – I mean literally looked up to them, as I often lay passed out drunk on the floor of their off-campus apartment. Also, whenever I would see those guys after they had graduated, it would be like a glimpse three years into the future for me. When I was a sophomore, they were living in Manhattan and working on Wall Street, as I would later do. By the time I had graduated and they were in their mid-twenties, they had started to pursue other interests and disperse across the country, as I would also later do. But now, most of them are back in New York, married, and even have kids – none of which are particularly likely to happen to me in the next three years. I got a little worried that I disrupted the time-space continuum or something. On one hand, they’re all enormously successful and have very hot wives. On the other hand, though, their fresh produce drawers are definitely stocked with actual fresh produce, which is kinda lame. And so it dawned on me that if their future was an Evite and I had to respond, for once I’d have to simply say “maybe.” Fuck me.